


sea breeze

by flirtygaybrit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Felching, Gratuitous References to Coastal Climates, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: The coast’s nostalgic call was in vain, for neither Geralt nor Jaskier could, in that moment, have been transported anywhere in time except forward, where they were discovering a new future together with every passing second.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 177





	sea breeze

The coastline that stretched from Cidaris to Gors Velen smelled like the sea, and so it was that all who traveled the main road—fleet-footed couriers splashing through the muck after a rain, merchants and the brigands who more boldly and frequently accosted them in hopes of acquiring rare artifacts en route to Oxenfurt or Aretuza, and even Witchers who sought wisely to skirt the hazardous, arrow-riddled borders of Brokilon Forest—inevitably absorbed the stink of brine and fish, even miles inland.

But one could learn to ignore the stench, or at least could learn to forget about it more quickly; for example, one who had spent the better part of his early adulthood years as an enthusiastic young scholar, gazing out across the sea from a dormitory room overlooking rocky cliffs, where the strongest memories imprinted upon one’s poetic soul would be the lash of rain against the windows, the piercing cry of greedy, ravenous seabirds, and the taste of salted cod and haddock.

One could also easily identify and tune out the sulphurous waft if one had spent a great deal of time mucking about in swamps and marshes, roaming from port city to port city over the course of years and seeking gainful employment from Poviss to Pont Vanis and Cidaris to Cintra, and who had by accident swallowed enough seawater wrestling amphisbaenae—again, over the course of years—to make even the most stalwart seaman green around the gills.

The point was this: the first balmy summer breeze that carried a handful of errant sparks from the low-burning campfire and scattered them across Geralt’s bare ass and back, where they settled and singed and were ultimately forgotten as yet another sting attributed to the furrows that Jaskier’s fingernails were carving into Geralt’s skin, carried also the scent of salt and seafood and, among the gossiping leaves, whispered a memory.

For each Geralt and Jaskier it was a memory of youth, of days whiled away in fishing villages and nights spent among raucous, drunken sailors, but the coast’s nostalgic call was in vain—for neither Geralt nor Jaskier could, in that moment, have been transported anywhere in time except forward, where they were discovering a new future together with every passing second. 

It was a future where they spent the new present engrossed wholly in one another, making fierce, fervent love, and neither the gossiping of the trees, nor the whispers of the past, nor even the threat of a fire under Geralt’s arse could have hurried them away from where they were.

“Ah,” Jaskier panted, finally easing the pressure that he had placed on Geralt’s back with his heels, “ah-ha-ha. Oh. Whew. Oh, I am... _thoroughly_ wrung... gods, that is... really, are you not finished...?”

Geralt, though no longer pinned against Jaskier’s body like a great fly embraced by a particularly sweaty spider, still rocked against him; he’d spent himself, as Jaskier had noted, but still continued to roll his hips slowly and deeply, savouring the brief window of time in which further stimulation continued to be pleasurable. In those waning moments, he scraped his teeth over Jaskier’s chest, pressed the bard into the dirt, and pulsed into him once more.

“Oh, yeah,” Jaskier said breathily, not bothering to hide the blissful upward roll of his eyes as they slid shut. “Yeah. Mmm. Much better.”

He patted Geralt on the back, and Geralt, having temporarily forgotten the full catalogue of his available motor functions, lifted his head and smeared his lips over Jaskier’s jaw until he met his mouth, and lost himself in a long, deep kiss.

Then Jaskier chuckled, filling Geralt’s mouth with mirth and sending him unwittingly toward his first coherent post-coital thought, which was that his leg had started to go numb.

“You’re laughing.”

“I am laughing,” Jaskier agreed, patting Geralt fondly—if roughly—on the back once more. “The fire’s died down, I can feel you drooling on my chest, a mosquito’s just bitten you—got it, by the way, sweet retribution—and my leg’s going numb, damnit.”

“Sounds like it’s been a good night for you.”

“I simply can’t think of a better one.”

After ensuring that any mosquito remains had been brushed from his shoulders, Geralt disentangled himself from Jaskier’s limbs and rose onto his knees, arching his back in a lazy stretch that sent suggestive shadows reaching for the very edges of the forest not illuminated by the dying firelight. Jaskier made a face at the sudden emptiness, but seemed to appreciate the freedom; he sat upright, too, shivered in the wind that had sent another handful of sparks swirling joyously into the air, and knitted his brows in thought. “Huh. D’you smell that? Not the smoke, the…”

Geralt inhaled deeply. He had too much sensory input and too little sense to process all of it, and closed his to concentrate. Soil, saddle, sweat, semen—ah, there it was. Sea. 

“Smells like the coast.”

“Smells like sweet freedom,” Jaskier said, stretching his arms over his head. Geralt could hear the individual facet joints of his spine popping as he straightened his back, then flopped back onto the dusty pile of clothing and rolled-up blankets with a cloak thrown hastily over it that had served as a makeshift bed—and more importantly, a means to keep dirt from lodging itself in Jaskier’s ass. “You know, Geralt, I’m actually glad we’re going back. I didn’t think I’d miss the sea so soon after our previous misadventures”—which had included a professional rivalry, a tavern brawl, and a minor stabbing, all more or less unrelated to their presence—“but I’ll be damned if I don’t find myself salivating for want of seafood. Something white, salty, flavourful...”

“Sounds... delicious.”

“Don’t be filthy, you degenerate,” Jaskier said, reaching over to ruffle Geralt’s hair like a fond uncle. “I understand you often have some difficulty prying your thoughts away from the debased and the debauched, but plea—”

Geralt, who had suddenly developed an appetite of his own for something white, salty, and flavourful, had gripped one of Jaskier’s ankles and hauled him closer, distorting his syllables and disrupting his general demeanour in the process to palm greedily over his thighs. They were as love-marked as the rest of him, and one bore a mostly-healed scratch from where Jaskier had attempted to wear a knife on his belt, but the heavy petting did not appear to bother him; he only hissed softly when Geralt leaned down and nipped at the inside of his knee again, and even that was as frightening as a kitten’s ferocious roar.

“Turn over.”

“You could ask nicely.”

“Please turn over,” Geralt amended, though it was unnecessary to do so; Jaskier was already turning carefully onto his belly and, performing his best impression of a clairvoyant, had spread his thighs to display himself before Geralt had even opened his mouth to ask. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, if you can believe it,” Jaskier replied smugly. He knew what Geralt wanted and did not disguise his knowledge; his arse was already on full display, spread open for all the trees within the clearing to see. The firelight hid nothing, yet Geralt didn’t need any light at all to appreciate Jaskier’s glistening hole, his flesh pink from use and slick with oil and some lubrications of Geralt’s own supply. “And before you ask, yes, I feel like a broodmare nearly every time you do that, and yes, I want as much of this out of me as possible before I even look at my saddle in the morning.”

“So you’re telling me I have the rest of the night to do as I please.”

“Hah,” said Jaskier, who knew all too well the perils of challenging Geralt to any particular task. “No, preferably not. And be gentle, please. No biting, no lapping like a starving dog. And no cheating.”

Geralt ran a soothing hand along Jaskier’s spine, waiting patiently for him to decide he was finally comfortable atop the clothing and the cloak, then took his place between the bard’s thighs. He could satisfy at least two of those requests, he thought; they were both sated, having sloughed off the rough and the want and the need, and what was left of their hunger was merely simmering, a desire for warmth and protection and indulgent, prolonged contact.

“How gentle is gentle?” Geralt asked, gathering a bit of leaking fluid on the pad of his thumb. He pressed it easily back into the warm clench of Jaskier’s body, and Jaskier sighed and melted further into the pillowing.

“Mm… I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Freshly post-coital, Jaskier took two fingers easily, and could have—probably would have—gladly taken more, had he asked for it, or simply wished for something rougher, quicker, or more filling. But Geralt, true to his word, treated him with gentleness, pressing his fingers in and withdrawing them at the same leisurely pace. Jaskier was relaxed, pliant, and generally favourable toward the careful stimulation, and Geralt, careful to neither fill him too quickly nor stretch him too wide, also took note of where he gripped Jaskier’s arse to hold him open. He knew that it was uncomfortable enough to spend hours astride a horse, and knew that riding a cock after brought a different sort of discomfort, however pleasurable at the time. And it wasn’t as if he’d been gentle, not at first. But now was not the time for overstimulation or boundary-testing. Jaskier didn’t want to be fucked—he wanted to be pampered.

“Yes,” the bard mumbled to himself at the first touch of Geralt’s lips to his spine, “more of that.”

What he wanted, evidently, was more open-mouthed kisses pressed against his skin, knowing from experience that it would lead to more of Geralt’s lips and tongue in all the places that he wanted them. He hummed and sighed and lifted his hips, and Geralt, smiling privately, mouthed at each of Jaskier’s vertebrae, gathered the seed that his fingers had forced out, and pressed it back into him. Jaskier hummed and sighed and lifted his hips some more, gripping Geralt’s fingers with that familiar post-orgasmic flutter, and finally muffled a soft moan—with what, precisely, Geralt did not see, as his attention was entirely focused upon the tang of his sweat and the hot, slick skin of his cleft.

Jaskier shivered again. He gripped at Geralt’s fingers involuntarily, and widened the space between his thighs as Geralt licked gently around his knuckles.

“Oh,” breathed the bard.

Geralt, understanding the breathy tenor and subtle tremor of Jaskier’s voice, withdrew a finger and gathered the oil and salt and bitter on his tongue instead.

“Yes,” Jaskier insisted, muffled by either his arm or his palm or the cloak. “Yes... oh, goodness.”

“Don’t censor yourself on my behalf. I like to hear.”

“I appreciate that,” Jaskier said, sounding strained, “and I adore your commentary and conversation, but put your fucking tongue back in me, if you’d be so kind.”

Geralt chuckled and did. He held Jaskier open with one finger and with a soft tongue breached him, and was tender and sweet as requested, as unapologetic with his tongue as he had been with his cock and just as practiced; Jaskier shuddered and moaned and squirmed and was tender and sweet in kind, in his own way. He whispered words to the breeze that Geralt savoured and further provoked, and which provoked him in turn: Geralt spelled Jaskier’s name against his skin and deep within him and the bard moaned Geralt’s out into the night; he pressed his tongue deeper, found a rhythm far slower than the off-beat pulse of Jaskier’s muscle and the thunderous beat of the bard’s heart, and kissed him softly, thoroughly, and wetly; he gorged himself on Jaskier’s pleasure.

He felt Jaskier shudder beneath his hands and gentled him, listened again to the tremor in his breath and the desperate twitch of his muscle, and responded accordingly.

And he was less gentle. Jaskier’s body took two fingers and a tongue with ease, and Jaskier panted, reached back, and gripped Geralt by the hair. Ungently.

“Cheating,” he hissed.

Geralt was.

Geralt continued to.

The foliage in the clearing trembled in the temperate coastal breeze, utterly indifferent to the howl which neither Jaskier’s arm, nor his palm, nor even his cloak could muffle.

Once the bard had crested and begun the slow float back to cognizance, Geralt crawled up and performed his most faithful impression of a blanket. He was cautious not to crush the air from Jaskier’s lungs, but lay still and silent, moving only his thumb over the back of Jaskier’s hand and his lips against the back of the bard’s shoulder.

Geralt waited, weighted, and remained unmoving as the breeze stirred the nearby bushes and fronds and wicked away the moisture on Jaskier’s skin, bringing once more that familiar salt-sulphur memory of the sea and drying the salt-slick of Jaskier’s sweat to a memory on his skin. 

He waited and weighted until Jaskier found his tongue and relearned the delicate art of speech.

“Don’t,” he warned laboriously, voice rasping in his throat, “get up.”

Geralt—well-versed in double entendre, the loose-limbed and tranquil body language of one who had been stretched taut and allowed to recoil, and the bard’s punctuative predilections—pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his head and did precisely as he was told.

“When you’re able,” Geralt said after an indeterminable amount of time spent listening to the distant music of the stars and the thrum of Jaskier’s heart, “feel free to rate my performance.”

Jaskier took a breath. Geralt shifted just enough to let him expand his rib cage, but remained partially draped over him, acting as a shield from the wind. 

“Fucking stupendous,” he mumbled.

“Do you still feel like a broodmare?”

“Do I? Why, I feel… I _feel_ ,” Jaskier said in a sudden moment of lucidity, “like I’ve been fucked by a horse and a hagfish both.”

Geralt was both flattered and amused, but respectfully did not laugh. He pulled a blanket out from beneath the cloak with great difficulty, shook it out over them until he was satisfied that no insects would plague Jaskier in the night, tucked an arm around Jaskier’s waist instead, settled onto his side, and watched the bard roll a bleary eye in his direction. Most of this was practiced, but Geralt felt certain he would never grow accustomed to the glow in Jaskier’s cheeks and the warmth in his gaze. 

“At least you’ll have no trouble riding tomorrow.”

Jaskier, patting half-blindly around Geralt’s ear, sank his fingers into Geralt’s hair. He hummed something musical and mirthful and scratched Geralt’s scalp like a lazy cat. “And I appreciate it. We’ll reach the coast in no time, I’ll be so eager to get out of the saddle. Ah... I can imagine it already. The air reeks of it here. You remember, don’t you? The thunderous crash of the waves breaking upon the shore, the smell of fish sizzling on grills and frothing in iron pots, the merchants peddling their exotic wares...”

He romanticized it, of course. Still floating like a feather, the breeze had carried Jaskier away, transporting him through time and memory. His voice was dream-like. His pulse had dropped, his respiration was slowing. He was quickly falling asleep, but he still smiled into the dark.

“I remember it,” Geralt replied softly, with a smile. “The stink of gull shit and ozone and academia.”

He romanticized it too. He couldn’t help it. He drifted on campfire smoke and sex and salt-fish, the past mingling with the present, the promise of the future like that of a distant light in the fog. He squeezed Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier squeezed back.

The point was this: the coast had called and called and called again. At long last, it had hummed a melody that sought not to interrupt their love, but to bolster it. And they’d heard it. In the dark, with sparks floating above them like stars.

“And freedom,” Jaskier murmured.

“And freedom,“ Geralt agreed.


End file.
